


Lay Your Head Down (I Won't Let The Boogeyman Come)

by tabris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Biting, Consensual Somnophilia, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabris/pseuds/tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've kind of. Had this fantasy," Stiles says in a stumbling rush. "And seeing as this may be my last week ever in this room. Kind of a now or never thing. So. Um."</p><p>Derek drags his nose up the back of Stiles' neck, pulling him closer to his chest as he makes a questioning sound. </p><p>Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, then blurts out, "I just really want you to sneak in, pin me down, and start fucking me so when I wake up I can't do anything but lie there take it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Your Head Down (I Won't Let The Boogeyman Come)

**Author's Note:**

> one of these days i'll be able to join a new fandom without immediately writing porn. today is not that day.

"You know, I'm leaving in a week," Stiles says, apropos of nothing.

And god, does Derek know. It's not as though Stiles is going far — he's not even leaving California, but the thought of Stiles away at college and not here, not in Derek's arms _here_ , makes him want to sink his claws into Stiles and never let go.

Derek hums in response, not quite trusting his words yet. Stiles has developed a method for asking him things that involve feelings while he's still in that floaty, post-sex headspace to try and drag honest answers out of him. It usually works.

"I was kind of wanting to ask for something."

A breeze through the open window shifts the sheet they're lying under, but it's too warm to be causing Stiles' little squirming shudder. 

"What is it?"

"I've kind of. Had this fantasy," Stiles says in a stumbling rush. "And seeing as this may be my last week ever in this room. Kind of a now or never thing. So. Um."

Derek drags his nose up the back of Stiles' neck, pulling him closer to his chest as he makes a questioning sound. There's no way on Earth either of them could go another round right now but the anxious arousal coming off of him right now almost makes Derek wish they could.

Stiles takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment, then blurts out, "I just really want you to sneak in, pin me down, and start fucking me so when I wake up I can't do anything but lie there take it."

That's not what Derek had been expecting at all. His dick twitches where it's tucked between Stiles' thighs.

"Why do I get the feeling you've been thinking about that for a while?" Derek asks.

"Since some time around the first time you shoved me against a wall, I'm pretty sure."

Derek rolls his hips helplessly and tries valiantly _not_ to think about manhandling sixteen-year-old Stiles.

"That's…" dangerous is what that is, Derek thinks. Sleepy Stiles is _pliant_ in a way that waking Stiles' brain just won't allow, and Derek would be the first to admit that fucking Stiles first thing in the morning is the closest approximation he's got to being drunk. Just the thought of pushing that further is almost as intoxicating.

"I don't want—" Derek bites his lip to stave of the urge to dig his teeth into the already purpling mark on Stiles' neck from earlier. "How will I know you want it right then? With the," he makes a vague hand gesture, "and all."

"The nightmares slash sleepwalking slash panic attacks slash everything else?"

Derek nods.

"Dude, I already know you can tell what sleep cycle I'm in at any given point in time, _and_ you can pick up on moods by smell."

"That's not the same as actually being psychic."

Stiles squirms onto his stomach and scans the room, squinting thoughtfully as his eyes light on his headboard.

"How's this," he says, picking up the bottle of lube he keeps tucked into the corner by his lamp. "Before I go to bed, if I'm feeling up to it, I'll move this over to the other side of the shelf." He points to the other side of his headboard, then waggles his eyebrows. "All the closer for you to get me all wet with."

It's not actually a bad plan, Derek thinks after a minute of giving Stiles his 'Really?' face. There's still a chance he'll misinterpret something and screw things up, but there's a reason Stiles is usually the one making battle plans. Even the ones he comes up with on the fly tend to have a much higher success rate than everyone else's.

"One condition," Derek says sternly. "If I do this and at _any_ point you change your mind once you wake up, promise me you'll safeword out."

Stiles waves him off. "That promise is constantly in effect, come on. You know me. I've never been afraid to tell you 'no'."

"I mean it. This isn't the same as tying you up or blindfolding you. You literally can't consent until well after we've started."

"That's what the bottle is for!"

Derek stares Stiles down. It's really goddamned difficult when Stiles is looking at him with equal parts heat and trust with a just dash of his perpetual belligerence, but Derek holds until Stiles finally nods.

"God, fine. I promise."

•

On Monday night Stiles' dad is home. Derek doesn't actually have a death wish anymore, so it's no matter that the Sheriff knows about the two of them, he's pretty sure this would be pushing it.

•

On Tuesday night he finds Stiles still awake at 4 a.m., putting the finishing touches on the final project for his early start online class. Derek falls asleep in Stiles' bed before Stiles does.

•

On Wednesday night the bottle's tucked into the 'all systems go' corner once again, but Derek's still a little uneasy about the whole thing, thoughts during solitary shower time aside. He wonders if Stiles has even moved the thing since he moved it in the first place.

•

Derek comes over Thursday afternoon for a Leverage marathon and the bottle's back in its original spot. Before he leaves Stiles pointedly moves it over while staring straight at Derek. Come five-thirty in the morning when Derek returns, Stiles has sweated through his shirt and Derek wishes to every god he never believed in that there had never been a reason for Stiles to be whimpering in his sleep, "Close the door," over and over again until Derek pulls him close and tells him he's dreaming.

•

On Friday night _Scott_ 's there, for fucks sake, so Derek goes home and spends the next hour trying to decide exactly how he wants to wake Stiles up. He suspects he may have gotten a bit more invested in this little fantasy than he expected.

•

It's the wee hours on Sunday morning before everything finally comes together: Stiles' window open, the bottle strategically placed, no squad car in the driveway, and a solitary calm heartbeat.

The past week of inadvertent cockblocking has done a number on Derek's self control, something he will never ever actually tell Stiles because he in no way needs any more ammunition. He's already half hard by the time he slips through the window, taking a moment to stand at the foot of Stiles' bed just to breathe him in.

Stiles' pulse is steady and tonight his sweat is clean, purely a result of the recent heatwave instead of trauma for once, and underneath it a layer of low level arousal. Stiles is on his stomach in a loose sprawl, one arm shoved under his pillow, the other flung to the side, knee drawn up and the sheets shoved far enough down for Derek to see that Stiles hadn't worn his usual t-shirt and pajama pants to bed. He hadn't worn anything, in fact. At all. _Jesus_.

Suddenly all of Derek's ( _very reasonable_ , he thinks) reservations about fulfilling Stiles' request slink out the window he just crawled through, along with any vague plans he might have made.

He strips down quickly but silently; when Stiles is truly out like this he could sleep through armageddon itself but there's no reason to risk it at this point. Derek doesn't want to ruin the surprise.

The miles of pale skin before him are begging to be touched, to be marked and _claimed_ , and Derek finds himself dragging a hand over the knobs of Stiles' spine before he can stop himself. Stiles doesn't give any response beyond a soft sigh, so Derek indulges himself, letting his fingers wander, keeping his touch carefully balanced between too light and too rough.

It's not like he hasn't watched Stiles as he's slept before, but more often than not it's that one (or both) of them has been injured or it's been Derek guarding Stiles as he stole naps in the midst of precarious situations. He's really never had the luxury of taking his time, so this time he does.

This Stiles is relaxed nearly to the point of boneless, calm like waking Stiles can only dream of. And so when Derek follows his fingertips with his lips, carefully resting his weight over Stiles and tempering his kisses with gentle strokes, he matches the rhythm of Stiles' breaths until he's sighing on every exhale, the curve of his body arching against Derek in silent declaration.

Gently, so gently, he pushes Stiles onto his belly and draws a line from nape to tailbone, fingers dipping lower as he mouths the small of Stiles' back. Stiles is already wet for him, his hole slicked with lubricant that hasn't yet gone tacky, and, as Derek finds out when he pushes a lone digit inside, stretched as much as a slender boy with long fingers can do for himself.

It's an assault on his senses: Stiles' fluttering gasps just this side of sleep, the scent of his arousal permeated through every part of his being, the _heat_ of him taking in Derek's finger and practically begging for more, the saltsweat taste of him and the iron tang of blood rising beneath his skin, and not least the sight of his lover beneath him asking with everything but words.

The further they come from midnight break-ins and threats the closer they are, it seems. Derek knows _he_ certainly never expected that shoving the annoying, wide-eyed know-it-all against a wall would have led to them, _this_ , here and now.

Derek shifts lower, cock resting against Stiles' thigh as he begins stretching him for real now, his own need entirely secondary at the moment to exploration that's excruciatingly slow. Stiles fists his pillow before Derek deigns to slip another finger in alongside the first, his heartbeat tripping once, twice, so Derek backs his pace down even more and arches his neck to drag in lungfuls of Stiles' want, need, dizzyingly free of any anxiety or distraction.

For all he's still asleep Stiles wants nothing but Derek, and the truth of the feeling draws his wolf unbidden to just below the surface. An inaudible growl starts deep in Derek's gut and sits in his throat, Stiles' neck arching against Derek's teeth, sharper than is a safe match for how gentle and thoroughly Derek's fingers are working Stiles open.

Derek loses complete track of time in the pull of Stiles' warmth and by the time he has three fingers pressing him open as easy as breathing, Stiles is meeting his motions with little swivels of his hips and the faintest of whines, mouth open wide on his pillow. Even from his stance braced a few inches over Stiles, Derek can feel his flush, skin blotchy red from his cheeks to most of the way down his back.

The hitches of Stiles' hips turn into a full body curl when Derek removes his fingers, and his heartbeat and breathing speed up with alarm until Derek drapes himself closer, nuzzling the expanse of Stiles' shoulders and murmuring quiet nonsense.

It's only a bit of a reach to the bottle of lube and Derek has to choke back a hiss at the coolness of it on his dick. He's sure if he looked down he'd find it dark with blood, just the way Stiles likes it, just the way Stiles will taunt him for hours to get him to, leaking and begging to come, and this time Stiles didn't even have to do anything to get him there — the thought alone has him gripping himself tightly and biting at his lip.

Derek wipes his hand off on the edge of the sheet and gently pushes Stiles' other knee up before propping himself above him and lining himself up. It's torture, complete and utter torture sinking into Stiles as slowly as he can, no resistance at all just wet and heat and _Stiles_ and Derek's tasting blood by the time he bottoms out, arms trembling with the struggle to stay in control. His trance-like daze of before has morphed into a desperate need to _take_ the helpless body beneath him and it takes everything he has to move stealthily enough that Stiles is still asleep after Derek has slid forward on his forearms and hooked his hands over Stiles' shoulders from beneath him.

Somehow everything is infinitely better and horrifically worse at the same time because now that Derek is free to move as much as he wants without Stiles being inadvertently slammed into the headboard, every time he moves too quickly he still risks waking up Stiles and he kind of wants to keep _using_ him like this forever and ever. A deep breath doesn't help as much as Derek had hoped, Stiles' arousal as strong in his smell as it is clear in the way he can't decide between pushing back on Derek's cock or bearing his own down into the mattress even in his sleep.

Derek keeps his thrusts smooth despite the shaking of his shoulders as he feels the drag along every inch, forgetting to breathe as the tension in Stiles builds in nigh infinitesimal increments. It's all he can do to keep his claws to himself while he mouths the top of Stiles' spine, drawing out his own pleasure like honey dripping thick and slow and heady and sweet.

Stiles' whines grow louder, turning into gasps as he fists weakly, uselessly at his pillow. Then, in the space between one breath and the next, the hot clench of him around Derek's cock tightens as Stiles wakes with a shudder that Derek instinctually thrusts into. His teeth are at Stiles' neck before he realizes and when he comes there are stars behind his eyes, sharp claws pinning Stiles against him, and blood welling up in the punctures on either side of Stiles' vertebrae.

A cry breaks free from Stiles as though it were punched out of him, back arcing when he comes only a short second later. The shaking doesn't stop though, and where Derek is pressed as deeply inside him as he can possibly get he can feel every tremble, every shiver, each one pulsing through his own body like a live current.

All he can hear is blood rushing, and as his own pulse calms bit by bit Derek relaxes his grip, releases his jaw to lap apologetically at the shallow wounds on Stiles' neck. At the touch of his tongue Stiles sobs softly and stretches, silently giving Derek free reign. The complacency, the vulnerability of such a simple motion is very nearly more than Derek can take right now and he surges into Stiles to steal a kiss, messy and open, little more than teeth and tongues but it's _perfect_. Stiles is _his_ in every way possible and it's more than he ever could have asked for.

And, the thought slams into him, now that Stiles is awake there's nothing to hold Derek back from taking exactly what he's been wanting all night, because he's still hard, still balls deep inside Stiles, and Stiles is totally at his mercy.

Derek thrusts rough and Stiles shouts hoarsely, grabbing ineffectually at Derek. He's so weak, so out of it still that it's easy for Derek to capture his wrists in one hand and pin them above his head. Easy to hitch his hips up where Derek can get some real leverage to pound into him, and easy to shove his head down with a rough grasp on his neck, the skin there still slippery with streaks of blood and spit.

When Derek clamps down tight right on top of his bite Stiles full out _keens_ , devolving into gulping wordless pleas with his next breath. Sweat rolls down his back, and Derek can feel, can _hear_ , god, how wet Stiles is from Derek's come, his thighs sticky with it, marking him just as thoroughly as any bite ever could.

For a moment Derek remembers the look on Stiles' face when he asked for this, that hopeful tentative smile that Derek's never going to be able to see again without picturing this moment, right here.

Stiles is as taut as a bow, tension drawing up rapidly this time. Derek still can't get over how pliant he is like this, how he can just yank him up by his neck so that he's straddling Derek's braced knees, arms trapped between them as Derek holds him tight against him. Stiles' head falls back onto Derek's shoulder and when Derek turns his head Stiles' cheek is salty with tears but the desperation coming off him practically in waves is needy, not fearful, and when Derek palms his cock he finds it dripping wet and his balls tight.

He can feel Stiles' pulse beneath his fingertips, beneath his lips, hummingbird fast, and he jerks Stiles roughly in time with merciless thrusts until Stiles spills over, mouth open but voice trapped as he shakes apart. He's _beautiful_ like this, shattered to pieces in Derek's arms, incoherent and smelling of sex and pleased exhaustion and _Derek_.

Stiles' bone-deep aura of satisfaction only gets stronger as Derek keeps fucking up into him hard, selfishly seeking his own completion as Stiles melts against him, limp with pleasure. Derek tries to catalogue every little reaction, every nuance of scent and sound, but he can only take so much before the feeling of Stiles against him and around him becomes too much. When he comes he grips tight enough to leave fingerprint bruises across Stiles' shoulder and hipbone, and the way Stiles gasps his name full of desire and something approaching reverence strikes him breathless.

It's a long moment before Derek can bring himself to relax his grip and gently lay Stiles back down on his bed and an even longer one to make himself pull out. Stiles twists around just enough to meet his gaze and Derek can't help but laugh, just a little, open and happy like only Stiles ever seems to be able to draw out. Stiles looks like the cat who got the canary, the cream, _and_ an extra nine lives, even if he can't seem to summon the energy to make his usual sarcastic response. He just reaches up to tug at Derek's earlobe, and what else is Derek supposed to do but fall down beside him.

As Derek stretches, Stiles slumps close, face shoved against his pectoral. Derek has just enough wherewithal to tug the sheet over them before he settles in, gently carding through Stiles' sweaty hair.

"You good?"

Stiles doesn't even answer, just props his fist on Derek's chest in a vague approximation of a thumbs up before shoving weakly in the general direction of Derek's face, and is soundly asleep seconds later.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' then."

**Author's Note:**

> also @ [lj](http://users.livejournal.com/_tabris/32538.html) | [dw](http://cheri.dreamwidth.org/28261.html)  
> 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://confusetherude.tumblr.com). come say hi. (:


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